Duet
by piratesmiley
Summary: Peter/Olivia. "This story is hard for Peter to swallow."


A/N: This one's kind of difficult to explain. I originally wrote a version of this a long time ago after a re-watch, and realized that the way I set it up was strangely similar to that of a song: you tell a story in your verses, but you drive the main message home in your chorus. So … I ended up with this. I don't know if it exactly makes sense, but … here you go. :)

Spoilers: The Cure

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe.

* * *

_VERSE 1_

This story is hard for Peter to swallow. He wants to keep looking at her, to make sure that Olivia knows that he understands, that he's listening, that he is _there_ … but he has to look away. He can imagine it, helpless little girl, burdened with a gun. He sees a balding jackass, weighted with beer gut but still deceptively strong in rage, for the role of stepfather. In Peter's mind, the jackass felt fear because of the little girl; he imagines how good that made her feel.

--

They have something special, Olivia knows. It is the plain truth, and she knows it from the bottom of her heart now. Mostly because she's telling him the story.

She hadn't told John the story. The man she thought he was wouldn't have accepted it. Olivia feels bad for thinking that Peter would understand shooting family members better, but that's the truth too.

_CHORUS_

They had a difficult relationship—complicated, warm, fear-spiked, broken—and the reason for it wasn't grounded in a lot of sense. But they both held on tightly to each other in this frenzied situation—they had been air-dropped in an ocean; they were freezing cold, and had nothing to hold on to but each other. There were other people floating close by, drifting close when they were needed, but it was mostly the two of them. _That_ made the most sense.

_VERSE 2_

Peter talks to Nina Sharp despite his rationality, which had been screaming something along the lines of _why the HELL would you talk to her? What good can come of this?_ He warily goes anyway. He uses any pull he's established, any promise he can swing with this source-of-the-problem woman, and gets what Olivia deserves: answers.

He realizes later, when logic regains control of his brain, that he sold his soul to the devil.

--

She complains to him without realizing it. She's so stunned that _this_ is the world they've condemned themselves to. Something serious has gone wrong when simply living is the worst situation to be in.

Olivia wants to trust him, but he can see that she can't, not completely. She is a bit shocked that he lets go of his illegal source so quickly, but he understands that this is dire, and she appreciates the information she's suspicious of.

_CHORUS_

They both had been dragged in by and for selfish reasons (Broyles stole Olivia; John's lies pulled in Peter), but they were now committed. They both knew that leaving was impossible. And they both were so afraid—it was remarkable the terror that rang through Olivia every day, the agent, the girl that ran around with a gun. She tried so hard not to think about it, to keep it completely professional. If she didn't think about it, it didn't exist. If she didn't register the shock, it wasn't there. But it still managed to catch up with her at night.

And Peter, possibly, was worse. He felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, caring for this ingenious lunatic he didn't care to call his father. If something went wrong with Walter, this whole operation would crumble, and Peter would feel the blame. That responsibility — for a man who used to run without it — mixed with his _care_ for Olivia, his wanting to be a superhero for her made for a burden. But he refused to let it go, for whatever reason. He had something that he couldn't let go of; he needed her now.

_BRIDGE & CHORUS (AND REPEAT)_

She sees him and she's flushed with gratitude. What he did for her must have cost him, but he lied very easily about it. It frightens her that he can lie so easily, but it thrills her that he'd do such a thing for her favor.

But now it is too close and too warm, and they have gotten the point in their silent looks where she really doesn't remember what she's doing anymore. So she pulls herself up faster than necessary and looks back at him, still sitting there with a smile on his face. Her voice comes out hoarse as she makes a lame joke about Walter and beds, which makes her flush a bit more. He just smiles.

--

What else can he do? He likes her flustered; he likes her _a lot of things_. He likes that he _can_ fluster her. It's comforting to know that their little song, their daring dance isn't one-sided. She too is affected.

So he gets up from his place, teasing her a bit more because it's fun, and listens to her goodnight like it's a catchy melody. Happily, this is them. This is enough. For now.


End file.
